Tripwires
by JellyBob
Summary: When a horrific crime is perpetrated against Trowa and Quatre, Preventers Duo and Wufei go rogue to avenge them. After all, they'd sworn to protect each other. Duo just didn't bank on Heero Yuy coming back to keep his promise, too. Past 1x2, 5x2, 3x4, NCS.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Hello, friends! I know I've been barfing up too many stories lately, so this is likely the last multi-chapter fic I'll begin in a while. I just needed to have a good three or four projects to rotate between. That seems to be how I am at my most productive. I apologize for the roughness of this one—I'm sort of a one-trick violence pony, it seems, but this idea hit me a week ago and wouldn't stop nagging. I hope you enjoy, and thank you very much for your support.

**Story warnings: Violence, language, angst, drama, UST of the 1x2 and 5x2 natures, established 3x4, mentions of rape and torture, liberties with the series.**

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**Tripwires  
By JellyBob**

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He hated murder-suicides. Not that he supposed anyone in the precinct was particularly fond of them, of course, but he was pretty sure that there was a special place in hell for people who decided to drag their loved ones out of the world with them. Hurting alone was one thing. Homicide was another. As someone who had carried out more than his fair share of both of those behaviors, 19-year-old Duo Maxwell knew with certainty that life—his _and_ everyone else's—was far too precious for that.

If only he could've convinced certain AWOL ex-partners of his to give the philosophy a try.

But there was no point dwelling on the past, either. Duo propped his feet up on his desk and settled back in his chair to scan the case file again. Seemed pretty open-and-shut. Middle-aged man found dead in a hotel room charged to his own account, note crammed in the New Testament confessing to the murders of his wife, mother-in-law, and three children. The rosewood flooring of their country home was a sea of blood. Duo had to glance away from the photos and take a few deep breaths. No wonder Wufei had foisted this assignment onto him. They were both decent at handling the gory stuff, but something about seeing the spatter on that beige paisley couch was so personal that it stung. He and Wufei had no illusions about the restlessness of their bachelordom. Family was something they both wanted in their hearts, not seeping onto the area rugs in someone's cozy blue living room. How could anyone get desperate enough to throw all of that away? It was unfathomable.

Duo was yawning into his cold cup of coffee when the phone rang. The number wasn't familiar. He plucked the receiver out of its cradle and adopted his brusque, I'm-a-badass-Preventer voice, grateful that Wufei wasn't around to snicker at him for it. "This is Agent Maxwell."

A beat of silence. "Duo? Is that you? You sound ill."

"Quatre, baby! Welcome to earth!" Duo was instantly awake again. He swiveled his chair toward his monitor, fumbling to flip on the display. "Yeaaah, that was supposed to be my don't-fuck-with-me voice. Not impressed?"

"Work on it," Quatre advised. "It comes across like a bad head cold. Oh, speaking of which, your migraines—?"

"Still tapering off. I think they were just a stress thing. Where's your visual?"

"In a minute. Trowa's changing."

"But I like him the way he is!" Duo called, and was rewarded with one of Trowa's low chuckles from somewhere in the background. Duo propped his chin in his hand, grinning like a fool. He'd always adored Quatre, and Quatre's intensifying relationship with Trowa had allowed him some insight into that inscrutable companion, too. He'd gotten past the 'overprotective best friend' phase and was finally comfortable enough with Trowa to hang out with him one-on-one, tease him, or suggest articles and poems that he might find interesting. Trowa responded by giving him an astonishing glass paperweight with a three-dimensional mock-up of the galaxy suspended inside—his shy procedure for christening his treasured friendships, no doubt. He'd gifted Wufei a tiny bottle garden the year before. Quatre got a white calla lily spathe floating in a Lucite sphere. If Duo hadn't already been convinced that Trowa was worthy of Quatre's attentions, the gorgeous, thoughtful little gifts would've won him over. The guy was a keeper. He and Quat deserved all the happiness they could get, and more.

"It's just amazing here," said Quatre wistfully. "I love space, but I'd forgotten how earth air has this edge to it—so unprocessed, and actual. It's like anything at all could happen. That feeling's nice once in a while, don't you think? That humans aren't running everything, and we've always got something big and powerful to fall back on."

"Like nature, you mean?"

There was a shuffle, some muted laughter and the sound of a towel snapping. Quatre's sentimentalism gave way to mischief. "Like an attractive man's muscled chest."

Duo snorted. "Gotta get me one of those."

"An attractive man or a muscled chest?"

"Either. Both."

"I love your chest," said Quatre, and finally flicked on his video screen. He looked worlds better than he had three weeks ago. He was luminous with health and contentment, and his cheeks had the rosy, excited glow of someone who was preparing to spend some much-needed alone time with a lover. "Look, it's the penthouse!" said Quatre, scooping up his laptop and panning it slowly around the lavish room. "I'd hoped they'd book something much humbler than this, but the _view_, Duo. 76 floors! I can see your headquarters from here!"

"Sweet," said Duo, grinning. "You really need to get away more often, you know. You haven't seemed this happy in ages."

"The logistics, though. Making sure all my bases are covered, arranging the transportation, trying to keep it out of the press—it's a nightmare. It's more than worth it for you guys, but I sort of contracted myself into a corner here, didn't I? What I'd give to be able to just catch my lunch break with one of you and shoot the breeze."

"Shoot the thong-chandelier, more like," said Duo, remembering the unfortunate incident downtown when he and Wufei had bumped into a member of a drug cartel who'd been moonlighting as a male stripper. That one had been fun to explain to Une. They were still doing the damage control a year later, and the Nut House kept sending them tiaras and gourmet martini olives in gratitude. "You got that right, though. It's great living close to everyone. Still not quite right without you—" and _him_, "—but three outta four sure ain't bad for an average Friday night."

"Well, three out of five," amended Quatre softly.

Duo paused, caught his breath. "Ah—yeah, actually. Thank you for, uh—for still counting him, Quat. No one else does."

"Of course I do. We a_ll_ do. Wufei doesn't realize the extent of it, and Trowa doesn't want to hurt you, but you know we've always got an open seat waiting for him." Quatre's lips twitched. "Even at the Nut House."

Despite himself, Duo laughed. "But did you save him a tiara?"

"You know it!"

Above Quatre's left shoulder, Trowa stepped onscreen behind him, completely naked and holding a long-stemmed rose between his teeth. Duo took that as his not-so-subtle hint to sod off. "H-hey, look at the time! It's almost—I need to go! See you tomorrow evening, gorgeous. Really glad you got here safe and sound."

"Oh—bye?" said Quatre, confused, in the instant before Trowa leaned over to kiss his ear, Quatre yelped and gave him a reflexive punch in the stomach, and Duo hastily terminated the call.

Four years of mediating their flirting and watching them court in awkward interludes, and Quatre and Trowa could still make Duo feel ridiculously lovelorn—not in their gratuitousness, but in their delicacy. Even when they were socking each other in the gut, there was a softness between them. A vulnerability that took a strong couple to admit to. Duo felt privileged whenever he was permitted to witness their interactions, but also like an intruder to their intimacy. He just hoped whatever romantic events lay in store for him were half as intense as what those two shared. Scrubbing his hands across his warm cheeks, Duo scooted his chair back to his computer, determined not to let himself mull over his own stagnating love life.

"You're red," observed Wufei from the doorway. "Get an eyeful from Winner and Barton?"

Duo swiveled around to face his partner, feeling a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. "From Trowa, yeah. Totally shameless full frontal. And let me tell you, guy's got more than an eyeful—would probably make at _least_ a double handful, or one good, hot mouthf—"

"Enough!" It was Duo's favorite sport these days, making Wufei blush. "Here," Wufei huffed. "Maybe some citric acid will kill off those crudities."

He caught two of the mandarin oranges Wufei tossed him, but the third bounced off the arm of his chair and rolled under his desk. "Whoops," he said, ducking down to retrieve it. "Hey, thanks. I brought you some Slim Jims. They're in my jacket pocket."

"Pass," said Wufei.

"Nope, not optional. I agreed to get more vitamin C and you agreed to get more mechanically separated meat cylinders."

Wufei cringed. "Exactly what nutritional merits do these, er, Slim Jims have?"

"They're good for your soul."

"Like ice cream bars and gas station hot dogs and potato chips that taste like bacon."

"Now you're getting it!"

"You have no right to be as slender as you are," Wufei grumbled, but he crossed the room to grab the proffered snacks anyway.

They'd become partners two years ago, shortly after a certain thoughtless agent had upped and left without one word to either Une or Duo. That had fucked Duo up more than he cared to admit. He even went so far as to turn in his two weeks' notice and pack up most of his shit, but the next day, Chang Wufei was strolling into the office with his own belongings and an announcement that his transfer request had been approved. He'd even scraped the "Yuy" half of the decals off of their glass door. Duo had balked at the change at first, irritated and depressed and unwilling to do much more than sleep and down double whiskeys. Wufei had single-handedly forced him back onto his wobbling feet. During one particularly rough, withdrawal-laced shift, Duo snapped and asked him why the hell he was bothering. "We are comrades," Wufei answered simply—knowing already that it was a fact that Duo had forgotten.

No one expected their partnership to be so fruitful, least of all Duo himself, but a month or so in, there was no denying it: he and Wufei had excellent synergy. He blossomed beside Wufei's self-control and quiet dignity, and Wufei learned how to improvise, to trust. They'd been little more than acquaintances even years after the Eve Wars. Now they were attached at the hip, and Duo thought himself a much better agent—a much better _man_—than he ever could have been without Wufei's companionship. He tried to thank him for that at least once a day in pranks, smiles, junk foods. He was fairly sure Wufei understood what he meant by those gestures. After all, he did occasionally deign to _eat_ the damn Slim Jims.

"So what's the plan for tomorrow?" Wufei asked, taking a seat at his own desk.

"Quat and Trowa are probably sleeping in, since Trowa got the day off, then they're listening to some guest speaker at the history museum. I figure you and I can get our shit squared away by late-afternoon, yeah? Then we'll all grab dinner and drinks somewhere and laugh at Quatre for ordering Nojitos."

"Sounds fine. Just—not that place that does the dirty martini happy hour thing."

"They took headshots of you and Trowa," said Duo, snickering. "No way they'd even let you through the door."

Wufei's ears went red. "Oh. Right."

"I might still have a chance, though. They only managed to get a picture of my ass."

"They might've implemented some sort of ass-check system to combat you," said Wufei, then sighed. "Maxwell—this is getting gross."

Which reminded him. "You want gross? I really enjoyed the awesome carnage-in-the-countryside case. Nothing like a nice stack of corpses to ruin your appetite."

"Stomach removal surgery couldn't ruin your appetite," Wufei pointed out, but got up to look at Duo's computer screen anyway. "I'm sorry I passed that one on to you. I was having tomato soup at the time. Did you need help with anything?"

"Nope, it's an easy one; I got it covered," said Duo, waving him away. "Tomorrow, that is." He hopped across the room and crashed sideways into the armchair in the corner of their office, tucking his arms comfortably behind his head. "I think I'll just bang out that report in the morning. Pretty sure I'm not going to be getting much more done tonight. You going to be done anytime soon?"

"Not likely. You might as well go home if you want to sleep."

"Now, what kind of partner would I be if I didn't stay here to give you moral support?"

Wufei rolled his eyes and settled back into his own computer chair. "One with some concept of personal space." He clacked away steadily on his laptop for a good ten seconds, then stilled briefly, hesitantly. "Hey. Maxwell?"

Duo couldn't quite bring himself to open his eyes. "Mmm?"

"Uh—sweet dreams."

"Thanks," said Duo sleepily. He snuggled down into the cushions, more contented here in his friend's company than he ever was at his distant house, letting the soft clicking of Wufei's fingertips on the keys lull him into a light slumber.

* * *

_It'd started off as a slow jog through the park, but, as things invariably transpired between them, it quickly became a competition. Now they were sprinting down the congested sidewalk dodging baby strollers and pets, and he was winning thanks to that last unvaultable hot dog cart, the wind and the sun on his face and his muscles delighting in the exercise and damned if he didn't feel better than he had in years, fucking _years_. It almost made up for the bicyclist who appeared out of Assfuck, Egypt around the final curve and forced him to take a flying leap over a park bench overlooking the duck pond._

_He lost his footing and skidded face first into the water. The ducks went up in a squawking, shitting cloud, feathers and crap everywhere, and swear to God a fucking minnow squirmed out of his mouth when he finally sat up and spat._

_The laughter around him was raucous. He considered the merits of drowning himself in the pond water. Then that familiar throb of sweat-shaving gel-holyshitpheromones was collapsing into the water beside him, clinging to his sodden jogging shorts, heaving with mirth so enormous and unselfconscious that he couldn't even make any sounds beyond a reedy, crackling 'aah, aah' sound._

_The guy was fucking beautiful. Paralyzed by his mirth, he was radiant and robust, somehow boundless, his brown hair matted to the sides of his face and tears brimming in his steely blue eyes. He tried to speak and almost choked instead. He fell back against the filthy bank, arms crossed over his abdomen, shoulders still heaving with silent laughter._

_And that was how he leaned over and kissed him. Kneeling in a fragrant half-foot of pond water in a public park, mud on his lips, in full view of big dogs and mothers and small Christian children._

_It was utter garbage, that kiss, and it was stellar. An awkward, gasping, duck-shit flavored union of their mouths, desperate and graceless, almost as messy as it was mutual. He tongued those perfect teeth apart. His muddy bangs hung into his face, leaving tallies of dirt on his cheeks, and he arched back into the eager hand that moved to cup his ass. It took him a long time to get enough air in his lungs to speak, but eventually the syllables spilled out between hungry kisses: "_Heero_."_

"_Duo_,_" he gasped back. "Please, Duo._

Duo.

"_Duo_!"

Duo sat up bolt upright in the armchair, hand at his gun. Wufei only used his first name when he was trying to get his attention. "_What_? What is it?"

"Emergency downtown," said Wufei. He was already pulling on his jacket, gloves clamped between his teeth. "Possible hostage situation. Three confirmed fatalities, reports still coming. Get to the roof; we're flying in with Po."

Duo snagged his own jacket on his way out the door, hot on Wufei's heels. Headquarters was largely empty, as it usually was this late on a weekday, but the workforce that remained was in a flurry of motion. He and Wufei dashed by the open lounge door. Duo caught the drone of old news from the television in the corner as they passed, the anchor's cadenced, unalarmed speech. Whatever they were responding to hadn't hit the airwaves yet. That was good and bad. It meant they wouldn't be weeding out hostiles from a frantic swarm of reporters, but it also indicated that the involved parties or causes were high-profile enough to warrant Une's attention markedly before the public's. Duo wracked his memory for news of important local events. Some conference or celebrity visit? A political figure passing through? He came up empty at every turn.

"Hold that!" Wufei shouted down the hall.

The elevator at the end of the corridor stammered, then the doors bobbed open again. Une and Sally Po stood inside, their faces drawn with apprehension. Wufei and Duo hastened to join them. The moment Duo's foot was over the threshold, Sally seized his arm and swung him right back into the lobby, tooth-rattlingly forcible in her distress.

"Not them!" she insisted, already moving to oust Wufei by the same procedure. "Use Artis and Foy! Duo and Wufei shouldn't—"

"No time, and we need our best," said Une, hauling Duo back inside. "Roof, now."

"What's going on?" Wufei demanded.

"The _roof_, Chang!"

Wufei stabbed the proper button. The elevator jolted into motion.

Une touched her fingers to the earpiece secured behind a smooth fall of her hair. "We're on our way to the helipad. Don't lose them, and make sure the other guests are—_what_? Then pull the alarm! We'll be there soon." She lowered her hand and glanced at Sally. Her mouth was set in a grim line. "Three more dead, no sign of the mark. It's on fire now. Entryways are choked off."

Sally drew in a sharp breath. "To the whole building, or just—?"

"Penthouse," said Une.

Something cold touched the pit of Duo's stomach. He looked at Sally, then Une, but neither woman was meeting his eyes. The elevator dinged softly and opened to the windy roof. The four of them were out immediately, their footsteps clattering across the landing pad, where two helicopters idled in preparation of their departure. Une signaled Wufei and Duo toward the air ambulance and hopped into the CSAR with Kenworthy. McCreary lifted off. Sally was flinging gear their way almost before they'd strapped in, a medley of equipment that Duo couldn't quite wrap his mind around, even as he pulled it on.

"What are we doing?" Wufei shouted over the sound of the rotors, equally confused.

"Good question!" Sally yelled back. Her hand flew to her earpiece. She turned away from them to listen.

Duo's heart was pounding in his chest, its pulse stronger and louder in his ears than even the steady thump-thump-thump of the helicopter blades. He could already see the building. It climbed higher into the skyline than any other structure in the city, the top floor illuminated by the faintest telltale lick of fire and smoke. Duo scanned it quickly, estimating its number of levels. Forty, fifty, sixty—seventy. Somewhere between seventy and eighty, _fuck_. He crammed on his tactical goggles and reached for an assault rifle, but Sally stilled him. Her hand was firm on his wrist. It was a grip meant to comfort.

"The ground unit is tailing the perps."

"Then shouldn't we be—" Wufei began, nodding down to the street, which was steadily shrinking to the size of a thread.

"No, we need you here!" Sally interrupted. "Your firefight just turned into a rescue attempt!"

"They're alive, then?" Duo blurted.

Sally sent him a quick sidelong glance. Her eyes burned with intensity, then she was turning away, readying the ropes. "I don't know."

Wufei whirled on him for answers, but before Duo could explain, they were rising up along the endless wall of glass windows toward the hotel's jagged crown. The wind was deafening at this height. The helicopter rocked wildly in the turbulence before McCreary steadied her, and Duo shoved on his helmet and gloves, gritting his teeth with aversion when Sally tossed him a chest harness and a safety belt. This shit was not his cup of tea. Never had been. Luckily, Sally was already performing her final check on Wufei's equipment, and he was bracing himself on the skid, peering down over his shoulder to check his drop. His eyes met Duo's behind his goggles, and he lifted his brake hand to give the left side of his chest a quick tap with his fist—their wordless practice before every dangerous venture; a signal that meant 'good luck' and 'you're an asshole' and everything in between. Duo returned it, his throat swollen with emotion. Then Sally was shouting her go-ahead, and Wufei thrust back and away, the line zipping between his double-leather clad palms as he rappelled toward the penthouse.

The rapid lurch demarking the end of his descent made Duo's stomach plummet to his knees. He closed his eyes briefly, fighting a fleeting flash of lightheadedness. Then they were stabilizing again, and the chopper was rocking lightly in the frigid air as Wufei's feet gained purchase against the glass. Duo didn't hear the window break, but he felt all the signs: the angle of the rope, the taut muscles in Sally's arms, a sudden slackening in tension as something below them gave out. Sally waited a moment or two, then gestured Duo into place. Duo sucked in a deep lungful of air and fixed himself into position, knees slightly bent. The wind whipped his hair up in freezing lashes. He mouthed a prayer he didn't know he knew.

When Sally motioned for him to go, he dropped without hesitation.

They were much closer to the suite than he'd expected. He had maybe a second or two of freefall, and only a breath more to decelerate and come to a halt. When his arms had stopped shaking, he swung himself toward the empty window frame. Braced against the metal casing, Wufei caught him by his belt and hauled him inside. Duo's boots crunched into the broken glass as he unhooked his harness. Already it was quieter, but the dull rumble and crackle of fire was just as threatening, and the alarm was wailing somewhere in the distance. He liberated his handgun from its holster.

"I'm left, you get the right," said Duo.

Wufei raised his own pistol, gave a short nod, and disappeared from the sitting room.

The place was a disaster zone. Whatever bastards had been through here'd had no regard for the opulent carpeting or the delicate mahogany furniture, and even without looking at the wet bar, Duo knew that every single bottle had been dashed open against a wall or an end table. The room reeked of spilt alcohol. The greedy flames were lapping it right up, cutting down on their already narrow timeframe for rescue. Duo cleared the bathroom, then the bright white hallway that held a long marble countertop and two bone-white sinks. He flinched at his own reflection in one of the arched vanity mirrors. He barely recognized himself. He looked haggard, strained, far younger and more collected than he actually felt.

The bedroom door was open only a crack. Duo could see the flicker of fire inside, then a sudden, dogged motion—something jerkier, more desperate. A flash of white. Then red, the same unmistakable shade that saturated his case files day in and day out. Duo readied his gun above his shoulder and backed toward the door, giving himself a three-count. _One_._ Two._

_Three_.

He burst through the door. It struck the wall with a bang, loud as a gunshot. Duo slammed it back against the rebound with his free hand, gun fixed on the figure in the bed, blurry in the room's heat. Flames blazed across the dresser, the hazy wine-colored curtains. Duo had to blink hard to make out anything beyond that vivid sunset-like light. At first he couldn't see. Then he didn't _want_ to see.

His feet were moving before his brain could catch up. He vaulted onto the bed, his gun thudding to the carpet somewhere behind him.

"Quatre! _Quatre_!"

Quatre's head snapped up. Blood trickled down the side of his face and out of one ear. He wore a soggy gray pajama top and nothing else. Duo clapped one hand over Quatre's flailing wrists, double-cuffed to the headboard above him and scraped raw from his struggles. Quatre moaned something into his gag. Duo untied the knotted handkerchief behind his head and yanked it free, panicked when Quatre tried to speak and began to choke instead.

"Hold still, Quat! Hold still!" Duo seized his friend's chin and tilted it back, shoving two fingers into his mouth to search for an obstruction. He felt it immediately: something hard and small and square, slick with saliva and encased in plastic. He drew it out and examined it, confusion creasing his brow. "The hell is this? Some sort of data storage device?"

"Please," Quatre rasped, trying to pull away from Duo's grip. A dark stream of blood slipped from under the edge of the metal cuffs, running down his elbow. "Please, leave me, Duo—they took Trowa! They—"

"Who's they?" Duo demanded. He shoved the object into his front pocket and drew out his lock picks, but Quatre wouldn't hold still enough for him to work on the handcuffs.

"They used the fire escape! There were eleven of them—sunglasses, black and white wingtip Oxfords, compact carbines—"

"Hey. Hey, Quatre! _Look at me_!" Duo waited until Quatre's hysterical gaze had met his own before continuing, keeping his voice as calm as he could. "Une's got a ground unit in pursuit. She sent us up here to get you. Do you understand me? I know you're worried about Trowa, but I have to get these cuffs off of you, which means you're gonna need to help me. Okay, buddy? Is that okay?"

Quatre let slip a single, shuddering sob, but he nodded.

"Thanks," said Duo, cupping one hand quickly to his face, and set to work with the picks.

The flames on the curtains were inching closer. Duo tried not to focus on it, but it was hard as hell—especially since he'd finally figured out what it was Quatre was soaked in: bourbon. Someone had bound him to the bed, doused him in alcohol, and set the fucking room on fire. It was almost too much for Duo to process without completely flipping his shit. He couldn't even think about what the rest of it meant right now. Couldn't look at the bruises on Quatre's lips and throat, the smears of blood on his inner thighs. Instead, he concentrated on manipulating the tiny mechanisms in the cuffs, letting out a breath in relief when the first set gave way. The second lock was smaller, trickier. He tore off his goggles and leaned closer, keeping his hands assiduously steady even when he heard the sharp gasp from the doorway behind him.

"Oh, god," Wufei murmured, barely audible. Then he was at the foot of the bed, gun back in its holster, stomping at the tongue of fire that had just caught the corner of the bedspread.

Something fell to their right and cracked open. The blaze swelled; Wufei ducked away and Duo had to close his eyes against the rush of searing heat that lifted his bangs out of his face. One of the bourbon-drenched blankets picked up a quick trail of flames. Wufei dove for it, yanking it out from under Quatre and tossing it into the far corner of the room. He pulled the damp sheets free from the mattress and folded them over Quatre's bare legs. His gaze did not leave the fire.

"Hurry," he said quietly. "Hurry, Maxwell."

Duo gave the torsion wrench a final twist and felt the cylinder turn. "Got it!" He tugged off the handcuffs and drew Quatre's skinned wrists to his chest, quickly kneading his fingers to get the blood flowing again. Quatre's hair brushed against his cheek. He laid a fierce kiss on the top of his head, feeling shaky with fear and protectiveness. "Wufei—"

"Yes." Wufei was there in an instant, brushing Duo aside to gather Quatre into his arms. Quatre cried out in pain. Duo winced.

"Who the fuck did this to you, Quat?" he whispered.

He didn't think he'd said it loud enough, but Quatre heard him anyway. He clung to Wufei, his swollen eyes squeezed shut. "Trowa Barton."

Wufei went rigid. "_Barton_ did this?" he snarled.

Unbelievably, Quatre laughed. The caustic sound gave Duo chills. "Not _my_ Trowa. He would never. The real one, I meant. Dekim's son."

"No way," said Duo, disbelieving. "But he's dead. That insane motherfucker is _dead_!"

A patch of ceiling near the end of the room caved in with a crash. They had to shield their faces against the haze of smoke and embers. "_We're_ going to be dead if we don't start moving," said Wufei. He cradled Quatre close, nodded Duo ahead. "After you."

The corridor was still clear, but the bathroom was darkening with smoke. Bad sign. Duo charged through anyway, dodging the patches of fire where bottles of spirits had been thrown. The place was going up way too fast. When Une had sent them in, she probably hadn't realized the sprinkler system had been disabled and someone had soused the whole place in alcohol. Their entry point was still clear, but it wouldn't stay that way for long.

Duo leaned out through the empty window frame and looked up. McCreary had held the chopper's position; he could hear the blades thumping above him, and hot white searchlights were slicing through the dark. Duo drew the lines into the room and gave them a quick yank. Sally tugged back twice in confirmation. Good. Duo jammed the ropes between his teeth and began kicking a spot on the carpet clear of glass, fumbling off his safety belt first, then his chest harness. Wufei watched him for a moment before he caught on. He grabbed Duo's arm.

"No! You'll go first."

"You first, then Quatre, then me," said Duo. "You're better at rope-climbing."

"Exactly why you need more time!"

"If you go first, you can give Sally a hand with Quat. That's the quickest way."

"I'll be fine," Quatre insisted, trying to twist out of Wufei's grasp. "I can pull myself—"

"No." Wufei and Duo cut him off at the same time. Duo helped ease him down onto the bare patch of carpet, mindful of his lack of shoes, and started fastening the harness around him despite his protests. "Quatre, quit it," Duo ordered, when he began to struggle. "I'm sorry, but you are not climbing a rope into a helicopter 800 feet off the ground today." He turned on Wufei and passed him the lines, drawing Quatre's arm over his shoulders. "Get going, partner."

"I don't approve of—"

"Chang. _Go_!"

His use of Wufei's family name had the same effect on Wufei as when he used Duo's first name. Wufei's hands closed around the ropes, tested their strength and abrasion, and tightened in sudden anger. "Damn it, Maxwell," he muttered. "You stubborn fool." Then he secured his equipment and swung off the ledge, the muscles in his arms tightening with careful expertise, and gave them both a terse nod. "Give me twenty seconds. See you up there."

"Bet on it," said Duo. He touched his own chest. _Good luck_.

Wufei held his gaze for beat longer than necessary, then began to climb.

The sky was cold, starless. In the distance, Duo could make out the emergency lights of some non-Preventer law enforcement division, and behind that, the moon. The night was as bright as day with searchlights and fire. Beside him, Quatre shuddered and started to shrink to his knees, one hand clasped over his lower abdomen. Duo urged him upright again. "Stay with me a little bit longer," he said softly, bracing him against the wind. "We're going to find Trowa. We're going to get you out of here."

When Duo was sure that Wufei had made it up, he grabbed the ropes and knotted them securely around Quatre's harnesses, then removed his helmet, his gloves. Quatre had trouble spreading his fingers so Duo could jam them on correctly. His wrists looked horrific. He'd scraped the skin off all the way around their circumferences; his pale forearms were dark and sticky with blood. Duo urged both of Quatre's hands onto the rope and didn't let go until he was sure he had an adequate grip. One of his pupils was blown almost to the size of a dime. The remaining sliver of blue-green glimmered with grief, fright, disorientation.

"Hang on," Duo instructed. "Don't let go until Wufei and Sally have both your feet in the helicopter. All right?"

"Right," said Quatre.

"You're going to be okay," said Duo, giving him a firm, platonic kiss on the mouth. Then he gave the ropes a few brisk tugs, waited for Sally's responding traction, and rocked Quatre gently off of the platform.

He didn't get a chance to watch more than a few moments of Quatre's ascent. Something exploded in the kitchen behind him—hidden liquor cabinet, maybe, or a nice handcrafted bomb from Mister Crazy-Fuck Barton himself. Duo hit the ground hard with his head covered, felt a storm of heat roar across the exposed backs of his hands. Debris sprayed out in all directions. Shards of fine crystal, chunks of countertop, stained cabinet doors whittled down into stakes and splinters. Homespun hand grenades. Duo's knees and palms crunched in broken glass as he staggered to his feet. The antique sofa not two meters away was an inferno of floral upholstery, and he regarded it clinically, as if seeing it through someone else's eyes. The flames were creeping steadily toward the curtains.

Well, shit.

He felt the wind from the rotors before he heard them. It swept his braid off his shoulders, caught the frayed hems of his jacket and slacks. Duo turned around to face the looming skeleton of the search and rescue helicopter, rising like a monster from the floor below him, slow and sturdy under Kenworthy's dexterous handling. The searchlights washed across Duo, momentarily blinding him. When his vision cleared, he saw Une leaning out through open door, shouting something he couldn't make out. He squinted to read her lips.

_Jump. Jump._

Duo didn't give himself time to think about it. He backed as far into the collapsing room as he could, stopping inches from the burning couch, then took a running leap straight through the broken window and across the 76-story drop below him.

Flight. One pure, slow-motion second of flight. The wind licked through his clothes and hair, kissed the beads of sweat back off of his pounding temples. Duo let himself blink. It seemed to take hours. Behind his fluttering lids, Heero Yuy's face blazed forth in a sinuous swell of light, as stark and stable as a lodestar in the darkness of Duo's selfhood.

Then he was tumbling into the copter, pain screaming across his shoulder. He fetched up awkwardly against Une's legs as his hearing flooded back into his head like a hammer.

"Tell me he made it!" Wufei was yelling over the team radio. His voice was blaring with static, terror. "Tell me he made it, Une!"

Une stared at Duo for a long moment, her face oddly blank, then her expression firmed and she snatched the receiver off of her belt loop. "Of course he made it," she snapped. "Who do you think he is? Tell McCreary to get to the hospital immediately. We'll debrief there. You gentlemen—you gentlemen did just fine."

High praise from the big cheese. Duo dragged himself into a seat and strapped in, giving Une the cheekiest grin he could manage through the adrenaline-numbness of his face and limbs. And if Une smiled back—even just a little bit—she still did it under the plausible deniability of hypnagogic hallucination.

Sleep spilled over Duo in a pale wave, and he embraced it.

* * *

His goodwill toward the top brass bitch, as it happened, was incredibly short-lived.

A quick circuit of the hospital had revealed no available punching bags, so Duo had settled for dragging a CPR practice mannequin into an empty room and beating the fuck out of it. Someone in the Preventers could pay to replace it. Maybe they could fund it from their swear jar, to which Duo had accrued an astronomical debt in the past few hours. He pummeled Mouth-to-Mouth Molly and reopened every single stitch in his palms. He stomped her into the tile until her face was an unrecognizable mound of silicone, then he thrashed her some more. It was all he could do not to take an IV stand to everything on the whole fucking planet that might produce a satisfying crash.

Instead, he went home, stripped down to his boxers, shot beer cans off his back fence, and screamed into his pillow until his throat ached.

God knew what they'd done to Trowa. Eviscerated him by now, probably, and fed him his own fucking intestines. And Quatre. Christ, _Quatre_. He'd expended the last of his tenacity by filling out a ridiculously detailed report and consenting to a sexual assault forensic exam—neither of which Duo had a hand in, for two reasons _aside_ from his not being sure he could even stomach the information: first, because Quatre had flat-out refused to see him in the hospital. Sent a nurse out to give him a little 'thanks, love you, but I'm dying inside and need sedatives' speech. Duo wasn't hurt by his evasion; couldn't have taken it personally even if he'd tried. But it did leave Duo completely alone, and without tranquilizers. Which he craved like burning.

Because Une had fucking kicked him off the case.

"I appreciated your help tonight, but you cannot expect me to allow you onto this investigation," she'd said, and had the nerve to look flustered by his responding rage. What had she expected him to do? Cool his heels on deskwork while some scrub-ass trainee found his best friend's rapist and his other friend's abductor and the rest of the galaxy's undead, psychopathic autocrat? Yeah, that one was going to go over real well. Duo was seconds away from _screaming_ his way onto the assignment when Chang Wufei stabbed him in the back and fucking _twisted_.

"Winner and Barton are mere acquaintances to me," he'd announced. "I will handle this mission with all of the objectivity and competency that Maxwell lacks."

And that was when Duo had murdered Molly and gone home.

Duo scrubbed at his burning eyes, dully furious. The last hour had done nothing to quell his anger, but at least he felt productive doing a little investigation of his own. Hadn't found shit so far—he didn't have the resources of the Preventers, the sheer manpower. Fuck, though, there had to be something everyone had missed! No way the Barton Foundation heir had just crawled away from a bullet to the chest without a helping hand or thirty. It didn't matter how rich and powerful you were. If you _lived_, you left tripwires. Duo himself had just stumbled over two of them. Their names were Une and Chang.

After everything, that was the worst part of it: how could Wufei just denounce him like that? How could he disown Quatre, Trowa? It wasn't even about how many messages they'd exchanged or tabs they'd split or fucking bottle gardens they had sent each other. They five of them had shared something _sacred_. Duo had always understood what it meant to have such history together, even if they'd never had the words to explain it. He thought Wufei of all people would get that, too.

Someone knocked on his door.

Growling, Duo slammed his laptop shut and leaned back in his chair to yank open his curtains. Judging from the orange veins just barely bleeding into the horizon, it couldn't have been later than five, five-thirty. "Fuck off!" he shouted, but the knocking continued, gaining volume and insistence. Something in Duo snapped. He stormed to the entryway, wrenching the door open. "Fucking _what_?"

"Maxwell," Wufei began—and then Duo was charging him with absolutely no finesse or technique, fists flailing, trying to land one good blow against Wufei's treacherous face.

"Bastard! Get off! Get the _fuck_ off of my porch!"

In his blind ferocity, he was essentially helpless against Wufei's close combat skills. Wufei seized his hand and drove it back against the door, twisting him easily back into his house. Duo stumbled onto the welcome mat, regained his balance, flew at him again. This time Wufei did not pull any punches. He caught Duo's sore shoulder in an iron grip and heaved him inside. Duo went down at a painful angle, skidding on the hardwood. His heartbeat pounded furiously in his ears. He could barely hear Wufei's voice above that deadly pulse, brisk and forceful.

"Maxwell," said Wufei. "Listen to me. I'm here to help you!"

"Like you helped Trowa?" Duo demanded. "Like you're helping Quatre, and Une?"

"You burned that bridge for yourself! One of us had to make it across!"

"But at what cost, Wufei? You're really okay with throwing the rest of us in the fucking water to distract the sharks? Shit on that, Judas! My friends are getting their justice by _my_ hand! I'll do this alone if I have to!"

"You don't," said Wufei. "That's what I'm telling you, Duo—you _don't_." He fished in his pocket and drew out a memory card, holding it up before Duo's disbelieving gaze.

When Duo finally found his voice again, it was cracked, quiet. "You copied the case files?"

Wufei shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "I took the originals."

Duo closed one hand around it, but didn't release Wufei's fingers. "You took—but—"

"Infiltration isn't my style. You know that. But we had to have every source they did, at least as a starting point. We don't need Une. We don't need the Preventers, and we especially don't need the publicity that this investigation would garner in the hands of a known law enforcement agency. This is _personal_. Barton is calling us out, us Gundam pilots, and you sensed that right away. Just like I did."

Wordlessly, Duo nodded. He'd seen what had been done to Quatre; there was no question in his mind that Barton had meant to kill him, _shatter_ him. Their Trowa was only alive as bait. Bait for the rest of them.

"Between you and me, I don't think there are many obstructions we can't surmount." Wufei spoke into the silence, his voice gaining motion. He knelt down in front of Duo. "We are still the best at what we do. And now we are the targets. Barton will find a way to contact us with what he wants, and I trust no one but you, me, and Winner to make the decisions that will guarantee Trowa's safe return. The rest of them—Une, Po—they don't know enough about our association to know what lengths we will go to. They _can't_ know. What the five of us went through together, what we have—it isn't something that anyone else could ever understand. Do you know what I mean?"

In response, Duo leaned forward and brushed his lips against Wufei's.

Wufei drew in a quick, startled breath, but he didn't pull back. Duo gave him a moment. Tried to steady his own shallow breathing. Then he tilted his head forward again and brought their mouths together once more, achingly tender, snaking his free hand around to steady against the stiff, toned expanse of Wufei's back. After a terrifying beat of hesitation, Wufei relaxed into the touch. His pressed his tongue tentatively between Duo's lips, and Duo parted them at once, deepening their kiss with a sudden hunger that he didn't even know he had. Wufei's mouth was warm, safe. Comforting in a way that finally soothed down the nerves that trembled from the trauma of the previous night. Duo felt tears stinging behind his eyelids as he curled into Wufei's arms. He felt confused and protected and terrified all at once. He wanted this. He wanted _more_.

When the shadow stilled in the doorway, they flinched apart.

The man's stance was familiar. So was his worn pair of Preventer-issue tactical boots, the faded straight-leg jeans, the brown rucksack that slipped from his slack grip and hit Duo's doorstep with a soft thud. He wore a dark green jacket with patches at the elbows. From under a brown fringe of unruly bangs, his gaze was blue; deep, scorching blue.

Duo stood up, disbelieving.

He was staring into the unmistakable, stunned eyes of Heero Yuy.

* * *

**End of chapter one**

* * *

Thank you very much for reading. Suggestions, corrections, and concrit greatly appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Hello, everyone. Sorry for the delay! The next update will be out a lot sooner, as it is already complete—I had to chop this chapter off early because a break wouldn't have worked later on. Not too many warnings for this part (language, UST, inexplicit references to rape) but the next one is pretty rough. Thanks so much for the generous feedback! I will do a better job replying to reviews this time around. I'd forgotten the feature even existed.

Oh, also—I've started a sketch blog that focuses primarily on Gundam Wing art! Feel free to check it out at****** lurch-and-press **dot****** tumblr** dot****** com**, and be sure to say hi! I'd love some more friends, and I'm always open for requests.

* * *

**Tripwires  
****By JellyBob**

* * *

It occurred to the three of them, in the same instant, that if one of them didn't break the ice soon, they were likely to stand in agonizing silence indefinitely. After the longest thirty seconds of their lives, all of them spoke in unison:

"Where have you been?" Wufei demanded.

"This was a mistake," was Heero's contribution.

"The _fuck_ kind of nerve do you—"

And Duo had been perfectly prepared to shout over both of them, but there was a sudden _bang_ beside him, and they startled badly—Duo worst of all. He looked toward the source of the noise and blinked. He had punched his right fist clean through the wall. How too fucking cliché. Dust and plasterboard clung to his knuckles as he extricated his hand from the damage, staring at the dark beads of blood that were beginning to trickle down his wrist. One warm drop slipped off and splattered on the hardwood between his bare feet. A thin, shaky sound filled his ears. It took him a long moment to realize it was his own respiration.

"I'm sorry," said Heero. He backed away, bumped into the doorframe as he turned to retrieve his rucksack. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I—"

"Stay," Wufei commanded. He cast a sidelong glance at Duo and swallowed audibly, firming his jaw against an almost imperceptible tremor. "I should leave you two alone."

"The hell you should!" Duo grabbed Wufei by the elbow and yanked him away from Heero, too livid to care that he was being juvenile. Two years. Two fucking years of hating himself, of scanning obituaries until dawn, of mourning for a man who hadn't even dignified him with a goodbye. He eyed Heero for a long moment, appraising his rough, unchanged beauty—the dichotomy of his rawness and calculation, the way he was jagged in every way that Wufei was smooth. And then he began to laugh. There was nothing else to do. You had to give the universe props for possibly the most elaborate, patient cockblock in the history of mankind, even at your own expense. He doubled over and remembered he was clad only in his boxers, and laughed harder. Tears began to sting in his eyes.

"Maxwell," Wufei ventured, sounding unnerved as fuck. "What can I do? What do you need?"

Still wheezing, Duo raised his index finger without lifting his head. He overbalanced a little and almost toppled forward, but Wufei was there immediately, his strong hands gripping his shoulders from behind. The near spill struck Duo as remarkably funny. He straightened and turned around to catch Wufei in an affectionate hug, pressing them hip to hip. Wufei went stock still. He held his arms stiffly out in front of him, refusing to rest them on Duo's back.

"Yuy, why now?" Wufei asked. His voice was tired, only distantly angry. Duo could feel every resonation in his chest and throat as he spoke. "Are you back for him, or are you back for _them_?"

Oh, god. Trowa and Quatre. The hysteria died in Duo's throat, one slow laugh-sob at a time, and he suddenly had to readjust his grip to cling to Wufei for honest support. Wufei's hands finally settled. His palms were stable and sweaty.

"Tell me what you've heard," said Wufei.

A long moment. Then a rustling of fabric as Heero shifted his weight, drawing himself up upright with militaristic professionalism. "At approximately 2300, fifteen armed men entered the lobby of the Rivage, whereupon the receptionist was shot execution-style in a back room. One of the intruders took her place at the front desk and provided the security clearance required to access the penthouse suite. A short firefight ensued. Two security officers were fatally wounded, another disabled. The men proceeded to the seventy-sixth floor, where three of them were killed during the attempt to subdue 03 and 04. Roughly half an hour later, the surviving eleven perpetrators set fire to the room and its entryways, necessitating an air rescue via the north-facing windows. 03 was taken hostage. They split into three groups. Two managed to leave the premises without incident in blue vans. The third stood sentry from the fire escape, and was killed in a rollover accident while trying to evade the Preventers unit in pursuit. The attack appears to have been perpetrated by the heir of the Barton Foundation, who was presumed dead."

Duo's mind swam. He had pulled back against his wall to digest the information. Well, shit—that was a much more comprehensive report than he himself had received from Une. Wufei might've been around to hear a semi-chronological account of the night's events, but it was still a mess by the time Duo had been ordered home—the only terms Preventers had officially thrown out to the press were "hotel fire," "dead security guards," and "hostage situation." Quatre's involvement had not been publicized yet. Neither had the Barton Foundation's. Heero sure knew one hell of a lot more than the average citizen should. But since when had Heero Yuy been average?

"From what news network did you acquire your intelligence?" Wufei asked flatly.

Heero shook his head. His businesslike efficiency had melted away; he looked suddenly older, his shoulders wrought with tension. "There must be a suppression order. There was nothing on the news."

"_Who_ gave you your intelligence?" rephrased Wufei, almost snarling.

"My sources are private. I can't betray their trust by—"

"But why not?" Duo interrupted, treating him to a cold, incredulous smile. "You betrayed _our_ trust without losing any sleep over it."

For the first time since his return, Heero met Duo's gaze with the full force of his former being. His eyes blazed dangerously. He was still a man who would kill for you, that look said; he was still a man who would die for you. Duo's throat seized up. He'd almost forgotten how it felt to be on the other end of that piercing stare. Beside him, Wufei stiffened, bracing one foot a pace backwards in anticipation of a fight.

"I lost sleep," Heero said at last, without hostility. His hands, curled into fists, relaxed impotently at his sides as he repeated it in almost a whisper: "I lost sleep."

Silence met this admission. No one knew what to say. Duo was getting emotional whiplash trying to keep up with this Heero, a man he loved and hated, wanted to kiss and kill. Instead of admitting this, he crossed his arms and looked away. His eyes were burning again. Only Wufei's voice brought him back, clipped with the dispassion of a temporary ceasefire.

"Well. I assume you came here with a plan."

Heero glanced over his shoulder through the open front door. He'd parked across the road and two houses down, a rental that Duo never would've picked for him, some battered red minivan with plates that probably wouldn't trace back to anyone who really existed. It was disorienting now, remembering how Heero used to lead them. He had, of course, relinquished his unofficial command to Quatre, who hadn't even bothered to pass the torch when he moved back to L4. By then, they were all friends. Equals. Heero's authority felt like a step backwards—not only in time, but in amity, as well. Three years of peace had changed them. Trowa and Quatre didn't even carry weapons anymore. But Duo found it easy to slip back into his Eve Wars-routine when Heero began speaking—found it natural. He could almost feel the ache of his perpetually loose teeth again, his swollen gums, still sweet with blood.

"We can't avoid some visibility if we're going to recover 03 before he is killed," said Heero. "Une can't sanction our involvement without undermining Preventers code, so don't put her in a position where she will be obligated to detain us. I spoke to Sally briefly this morning. She tried to lose a few pages of the reports, but Une had already been forced to file statements. Off the record, they've offered to assist us in any way they can without incriminating themselves. If we're careful to ask the right questions, their resources are our resources. _On_ the record, 02 is taking a paid leave of absence, and 05 is wanted for arrest for theft of evidence."

Duo's heart twisted at Wufei's responding wince. Three years of outstanding service, right down the shitter. For by-the-book Wufei, this defection was no less than moral suicide—and he had done it anyway. Motherfucker.

"I found someplace where we can stay," said Heero. "I'll drop you off there; it'll be our center of operations. Contact anyone you think could help us. Secure your lines and use proxies."

"You think we're new at this or something, Yuy?" Duo said. It came out sharper than he'd intended.

Derailed, Heero's mouth opened soundlessly, then snapped shut. A flash of—uncertainty? hurt?—flickered across his face, and Duo grimaced, feeling absurdly like a playground bully who'd just stomped on some kid's sandcastle.

"What will you be doing in the meantime?" asked Wufei.

Heero glanced sideways at him, then readjusted his stance to face him completely. Apparently he'd decided that it was safer to address Wufei. "I need to check my own intel, see if anyone saw anything that could help us. I've got eyes on the outskirts. Someone might be able to at least point us in the right direction." And before they could ask about that, about what he had seen over the last few years, Heero added, "I'll spring 04 on my way back."

Duo hesitated and turned to Wufei, whose face reflected some of those same reservations. "We're thinking that maybe Quat should sit this one out," said Duo.

"What?" said Heero. In his confusion, he even dropped the aliases, and there was no mistaking the tenderness in his voice when he used their names: "Duo, Trowa has been abducted. Quatre will involve himself whether we think he should or not."

"Exactly. So, uh, don't tell him."

Heero's brows furrowed. "I don't understand. He's a valuable ally. He _deserves _to be involved."

There was an awkward beat of silence. Duo studied Heero's expression, trying to gauge how much he had heard. He clearly wasn't the same socially stunted teenager he'd been two years ago. He'd spoken up in defense of Quatre's right to join the search for his loved one; an emotional courtesy that the duty-bound Gundam pilot wouldn't have thought to extend. Maybe the suppression order had been more effective than they'd realized. It was a difficult subject, but if Heero hadn't even referenced Quatre's experience yet, then he probably didn't know about it. If there was one thing they could count on, it was Heero's ability to take every variable into account.

"Yuy," Wufei said, thinking along the same lines. "You do understand the—extent of Winner's injuries?"

"Mild concussion," answered Heero promptly. "Sprained shoulder, bruising along the arms and back, lacerations on both wrists from the restraints. I can tend to him from the safe house, but if he wants to be involved, we need to relocate him before he is assigned a security detail. Even if the Maguanacs don't decide to keep him under lock and key, the Preventers or ESUN will. He's too protected."

Duo snorted. "Not in the ways that count."

He hadn't meant to say that aloud, and it wasn't fair to the Maguanacs or Trowa, but it did the trick. Heero seemed to realize he didn't have the full story. "Has he been incapacitated?"

"Yeah," said Duo, at the same time Wufei said, "Not exactly." They exchanged glances, confused. "Yes, I suppose he has," Wufei amended, while Duo corrected himself with, "It depends on your definition."

Heero just waited, mouth growing taut with impatience.

"He was hurt," said Wufei haltingly, when he realized that Duo couldn't find the words. "He was assaulted."

"Yes, we covered that," Heero snapped. Then something shifted in his eyes. "Wait. He—?"

Wufei dampened his lips and said nothing.

"No," said Heero, calmly dismissive. "No."

He turned around and strode out onto the porch. Wufei started to follow him, uneasy, but Duo caught him by the wrist and shook his head minutely. Wufei heeded the warning and stilled again. Without meeting Duo's gaze, he readjusted his grip so that their fingers were intertwined. When Duo gave his hand a tentative squeeze, Wufei squeezed back.

Heero reached the mailbox at the end of the walkway, about-faced, and paced back to the front door without looking at them. He repeated this several times. His steps grew quicker and quicker. On his fourth trip to the sidewalk, he suddenly crouched down and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, clenching his fists so hard the knuckles were turning white. Wufei glanced at Duo for guidance, but Duo was lost now, too. He remembered how to handle Heero's pacing; it was a nervous response that had worn a ten-foot split in a rug runner in his old apartment. This part, however—the breaking down part—this was pretty damn new. A cold sliver of emotion touched the pit of Duo's stomach. He didn't even know if it was fear, cruel pleasure, or sympathy. As always, Heero Yuy rattled him straight to the core.

So in the end Wufei was the one who took a deep breath and went to sit beside him on the concrete. He even gave Heero's shoulder an awkward stroke, and was rewarded by a short, timid nod in gratitude. Duo hesitated in the hall, then planted himself on the third porch step a good six feet away. That would have to be close enough.

"Why? Why now?" Heero had dropped his head onto his arms. His voice was muffled in his green cotton jacket. "They had finally found their footing. They were engaged."

"Bullshit," said Duo at once. "Quat would've told me."

"Trowa planned to propose last night."

"He keeps in touch with you?" Wufei demanded. "All the time we spent looking for you, and he—"

"No!" Heero's head jolted up in his haste to explain. "No, of course not. I haven't spoken to Trowa for years. He would never betray your trust that way. Especially when he knew…" he trailed off, but indicated Duo with a tilt of his chin.

It was the closest he had come to referencing their shared past, but now that Duo had an opening, he was too scared to take it. Maybe he didn't want to know what it was about him that had made Heero disappear. What had made him so deficient that staying away was the only option. Duo plucked a long blade of grass from the yard and folded it between his fingers. "So, right," he said, vying to sound casual. "You were stalking him? Intercepting his mail, all of our mail, what?"

"I won't deny that I watched the news whenever I could, hoping to hear your names. But I never accessed anything that wasn't public information. I swore that I would stay out of your lives, and I did." His voice cracked. "What happened to Trowa and Quatre is my fault. _My_ error. My selfish, careless, pathetic need to know how you were doing. Fuck. _Fuck_!"

Duo flinched. Heero's cry reverberated up through the empty street, startling chirping clouds of sparrows from their perches. It was a warm, beautiful day. Somewhere in the distance, a rotary sprinkler system sputtered, bubbling soft jets of water across a neighbor's new-spring lawn.

"Explain," said Duo, when the last of the echoes had faded away. Pissed as he was at the guy, he failed to believe that Heero was responsible in any way for Barton rising from the grave to torture their friends.

Heero gulped in a few deep breaths, struggling to regain his composure. He leaned into Wufei's hand, long since sapped of its discomfort; the sturdy, intimate touch of a furious but loyal friend. If Duo had needed any more proof that Wufei was one hell of a gentleman, there it was.

"I've always known we understood each other," Heero said eventually. "03. Trowa and I. It's not something we've ever talked about, or that I can explain, but he knew I was going to leave even before I did. He tried to give me reasons to stay. And when he realized I wouldn't, he asked for my contact information and told me he would write to me every week." He paused for a moment, steadying himself. "I gave him an electronic mailing address that I didn't intend to use. I never even accessed the account until two days ago. But he kept his word. I've been away for 108 weeks. Trowa sent 109 messages—the latest early, he explained, because he was meeting up with Quatre to ask him to marry him. That was last night. Two and a half hours before he was abducted."

The blade of grass Duo had been fiddling with tore in half. He lifted his palm and let the wind pick the pieces off, focusing on their slow descent until his vision became too blurry. Fuck it all. The only two amongst the five of them who'd ever had a shot at a fairytale finish. _Trowa_, Duo thought, squeezing his eyes shut over that familiar stinging heat. _Quatre_.

"What does any of this have to do with Dekim's son?" asked Wufei.

Heero stood up. His expression had gone stony again. "I'll tell you in the car."

* * *

He allowed Duo ten minutes to get dressed and pack a bag, which wasn't all that generous, but it at least gave him enough time to get the important things sorted. He pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, broke out an old baseball cap to hide his bloodshot eyes. Washed his hands. Tossed his toiletries into a duffel bag with a few changes of clothes, some comfortable shoes, extra socks, and his laptop. He snagged his Preventers jacket and his gun on his way out the door, giving his home a final fond look. He had a feeling he wasn't going to be back for a while. The hole in the wall was going to drive him crazy until took a putty knife to it, that was for damn sure.

En route to the safe house, Heero began the fascinating one-handed process of altering his appearance. Without missing a single word or stop sign, he slicked his bangs under a newsboy hat, swapped out his shirt and shoes, and put in brown contacts. It didn't alter him beyond their recognition, but the change was dramatic enough that Duo couldn't stop sneaking glances at him. With his blue eyes darkened, Heero looked more ethnic, less conspicuous. He even fell into character as he spoke, slipping into the peaceable yardbird parlance that Duo and Wufei heard often enough from the plebes at Preventers. A few colloquialisms and a half octave higher, Heero's voice carried none of its typical danger or intent. He could've been an errand boy off any lower-middle-class street on the continent. It was disorienting, to say the least.

"Barton had a tracker on my electronic address," he explained, guiding the wheel with one hand as he mussed up his red overshirt with another. "Ingoing and outgoing messages, access points—the whole shooting match. I made sure it was secure when I registered. That means someone coded it in later. We're likely looking for an operative in Quatre's company, maybe a secretary or personal assistant who works in close contact with him and overheard a conversation. Trowa wouldn't have spoken to anyone else about me."

"Bet you're looking for the same prick who booked the bogus hotel room," said Duo.

Heero's dark eyes met his in the rearview. "They didn't make the reservations themselves?"

"No. Quatre made this comment when he was showing me the view last night—said he'd wished 'they' had booked a simpler room or something."

"'They,'" Wufei mused. "Was he indicating gender ambiguity, or more than one person?"

"You got me. Ask Quat."

"I intend to. If he decides to join us." Sitting in front of Duo in the passenger seat, Wufei frowned, tapping his fingers pensively against the dashboard. "Here's what I don't understand. Barton had access to everything Barton—I mean ours; our Trowa—everything he wrote to you. That surely means he gets notified whenever Trowa so much as blinks, and Winner and Maxwell and myself by extension. So what was he waiting for?"

"My location, for one," said Heero, "which I conveniently confirmed when I logged back into the compromised account."

"Two days ago," Duo pointed out. "You know for sure that this bastard moves that quickly?"

"Yes. I queued a reply to go out from my residence this morning at 0937."

"They shot it up at 0940," guessed Duo.

Heero's voice was wry. "Detonated the entire property. The charges were set in advance. 0938."

Duo slumped back into his seat and let out a low whistle. Desperation swelled in his chest. He tried to cover it up with a laugh. "Well. I sure hope you got your goldfish out of there first."

"Barring Trowa and Quatre, everything dear to me is sitting in this car," said Heero.

Abrupt silence. Even Wufei glanced up at that. Duo's heart began thudding very fast, and he turned toward the window so Heero wouldn't see the color rising in his cheeks. Tiny white houses swam past them in perfectly uniform blurs. A person could lose himself in a neighborhood like this. No identity, no emotional liability. Duo wondered suddenly if Heero had owned goldfish, or maybe a plant or two, or if any photographs had decorated his unknowable walls.

"I'm guessing that your still being alive means that Barton knows you've fallen off his radar again," said Wufei, after they'd driven for several miles without speaking.

Heero nodded once, shortly. "That's right."

"But I suppose he knows now that you are at least accessible through Trowa. That's all he was biding his time for, wasn't it? The knowledge that hurting one of us means hurting the team. That his revenge could reach all of us—"

"—which is why he picked that hotel, and acted while Quatre and I were earthside," finished Heero. "He knew it was a threat we would care about."

It took Duo a moment to process those implications, but when he did, he wished he hadn't. He had to grind his fingers into the upholstery to keep himself from punching something. That son of a bitch. That sick, insane fuck. He had waited almost four years for the five of them to congregate so he could abduct Trowa in _their_ jurisdiction. He'd picked a hotel that Duo could see from his office, where he and Wufei would be able to watch Quatre burn alive. _Joke's on you, motherfucker_, Duo thought, forcing himself to get his breathing under control. _We saved Quat and we can save Trowa, too._ For all of his exhaustive recon, the psycho didn't know the first thing about them. Hell, it was basically rule number one: it took more than a little fire and fanfare to kill an ex-Gundam pilot. Duo didn't know about God anymore, but someone powerful was still pulling punches for them.

Heero parked the car at a curb in front of one of the anonymous white bungalows and was out grabbing Duo's duffel from the back before Duo could even unbuckle his seatbelt. "Whoa, whoa," he said, plunging up the driveway after Heero. "We're here already? Wufei doesn't get a chance to pack a bag?"

"I'd rather he didn't," said Heero, unlocking the front door. "I'll buy him the necessities. Work hours have started, so Barton's men will probably know that the two of you defected by now—something I'm sure he didn't count on. I know I didn't."

Wufei's expression was pained. "Do you have to say 'defected?'"

"'Absconded in favor of unsanctioned loyalties,'" Heero corrected, not without a dry dash of humor.

"I suppose we did seem rather—traceable," Wufei admitted. "Predictable." He followed Heero into the house, toeing off his shoes at the door and gazing around the nondescript residence. "If we'd been wildcards like you, Yuy, Barton might've tried to blow us up last night too. Guess it's a good thing he understands so little about what we'd sacrifice to assist each other."

Heero grunted his affirmative. "Get in touch with Preventers later today. I expect he'll be leaving a message for you two there, since I'm missing and Quatre is 'dead.'"

A kitchen, a living room, two bedrooms, two baths. Not bad at all for how small it looked from the outside. Duo paused to examine Heero's setup on the dining table, complete with two laptops and half a loaf of whole wheat bread. "I see you are as adventurous as always in your eating habits. I bet sometimes you even toast it now."

"Better than gas station bratwursts and chocolate soft drinks," said Heero.

"To each his own." Then the rage that he'd pushed aside for the sake of duty returned in full, and then some. "Wait, what the fuck! You've been in my fridge? You've been in my _house_? When?"

"Early this morning, while you were still out. I wanted to make sure it wasn't bugged before I spoke to you."

Duo sputtered in indignation. His house! His _private_ house! Who knew what kind of inappropriate shit Heero had come across during his sweep? Had he found the four-foot plastic burrito he'd stolen from Los Dos Potrillos? How about the picture of him deep-throating one of Quatre's antique silver-plated candlesticks at a fancy dinner? He whirled to Wufei for support. "Uh, little backup, here?"

"_Was_ it bugged?" Wufei asked mildly.

"Thanks, Wufei! Thanks!"

"No," said Heero. "And neither was yours. Don't be embarrassed—I have had _tinea cruris_ as well."

Wufei stopped and turned bright red. Duo swung around and laughed directly into his face.

Heero's voice drifted off as he went to deposit Duo's bag in one of the bedrooms. "When you call headquarters, tell Sally or Une to check your office. If they find anything, let them know they've got a mole in the department. If not, make sure to avoid any routes or establishments you used to frequent—Barton had to be keeping tabs on you somehow. Assume your most radical alternate identities. If you don't have any, create some. Supplies are in the closet."

"Speaking of alternate identities, who the hell are you supposed to be?" Duo demanded.

"Someone Une isn't going to recognize if I run into her at the hospital." Too clearly sidestepping the question. Heero tugged his cap down, focused, then relaxed into a calm, average-person grin that actually gave Duo chills; it was so damn foreign and at ease on the man's face. "I'll be back soon. Seeya!"

He pulled the door shut behind him. In the wake of his sudden departure, Wufei and Duo were left standing in the center of the living room, mouths hanging slightly ajar.

"Maybe he's developed disassociative identity disorder," said Duo at last.

Wufei frowned. "Maybe faking it feels more natural to him after two years of being incognito."

"You think that's his standard cover these days? Little Timmy Tenderfoot or whatever the fuck that was?"

"I don't know," said Wufei. "I didn't know anything about Yuy then, and I sure as hell don't know anything about him now."

Since altering themselves beyond immediate recognition sounded marginally more pleasant than facing either Une or Sally, they went to the closet and found Heero's stash of "supplies." Colored contacts, uncharacteristic clothing items, a full spectrum of temporary and permanent hair dyes—fan-fucking-tastic. Duo sighed as he sifted through the collection for something dramatic but reversible. The whole thing felt so regressive. He was finally getting comfortable in his own skin, becoming someone he might actually learn to live with—and then, bam! Hi there, Heero. Back to assumed names and skulking around in the shadows. He was starting to wonder who the hell Duo Maxwell even was, and why he had ever bothered trying to known him in the first place.

"This blows," he muttered. He picked up an ash-colored box and examined it critically. Wufei punted it out of his hands. "Hey!"

"It was gray," Wufei said.

"It was 'Iced Espresso!'"

"It was chintzy and premature. With the lives we lead, we'll be gray by our mid-twenties. What's your hurry?"

He had a point. Duo pulled his braid over his shoulder and peered at the strands, trying to decide if he wanted to risk using anything with bleach or not. Basically every natural color sans white was old hat by now. He sighed. Maybe he could just pin back his bangs and wear a lot of hoodies.

Next to him, Wufei looked even more uncertain. He hadn't stooped over to explore his options yet. When Duo gave him a questioning look, he knelt down slowly, his work slacks tightening gorgeously around his lean thighs. "Do you have false identities?" he asked, almost nervously.

"Well, yeah," said Duo. "Some questionable parts transactions I did three years back necessitated a couple of aliases, so I went ahead and maintained them. They're not real serious, though. Like, in Europe, I'm a 21-year-old engineering student named Isaias Monroy. In certain parts of L2, I'm Valentine McWhorter."

Wufei snorted. "Are they both prostitutes?"

Duo laughed, long and clear. It felt good. "Ask me that when you're not wearing a Preventers uniform." He picked up a box with a vivid redhead on it and held it next to Wufei's face, trying to imagine what he'd look like with the deep violet undertones the dye would produce in his dark hair. It'd be a subtle change, probably. Just gilding the lily and all. He realized he was staring at Wufei's lips and dragged his gaze quickly upwards, but Wufei's strong, studying eyes were just as appealing as his mouth was. Duo swallowed, cleared his throat. "So, uh, what about you? Do you have any alts?"

"Me?" Wufei hesitated. Then he shrugged one shoulder, a small, graceful gesture. "No, I don't. I've never been anyone else. I'm—I'm just me."

"Just you," Duo echoed, grinning ruefully. He withdrew the box of dye back toward his lap. His fingers brushed against Wufei's cheek with the motion, lingering there a heartbeat longer than was casual. "There is no 'just you,' Wufei. You are more than sufficient. Much, much more."

Wufei started to reply, then held his breath instead. His gaze slipped sideways.

"Listen," said Duo softly. "About earlier…"

"You don't need to say anything," Wufei said quickly.

Not the answer he'd anticipated. "Huh? What if I _want_ to say something?"

"No, don't. Just—think about it for a bit." Wufei sneaked a glance back at him, gave his hand a quick, awkward pat. "I realize things are different now. Complicated. I can't pretend to understand how you feel about all of this, and god knows I've got opinions of my own, but—you are the one with the hard choices to make. I must admit, I don't envy you."

Being cryptic was more Heero's thing, or Trowa's thing. Duo basked in the dynamism of Wufei's heart-on-his-sleeve reactivity; he was the only person Duo knew who articulated his emotions with as much day-to-day vigor as Duo felt his own. "The hell are you on about, Chang?"

"You and Yuy," said Wufei. "Of course."

"I'm talking about me and _you_."

"And I'm saying you should wait. Give it some thought, Maxwell. I—I care for you. Deeply. Which is why I'm not going to let you settle for your second choice when your first choice has just walked back into your life."

"My first—no. No," Duo insisted, grabbing his arm. "Don't do that, Wufei! Don't try to be a gentleman. Heero doesn't deserve your chivalry after all he's done, and maybe I deserve better than having to wait for the two of you to play out all this courtly love bullshit."

Wufei freed himself gently from Duo's grip. "Talk to him, that's all I ask. Figure out what you want."

_I know what I want_! Duo wanted to scream, but that would not have been completely true, and Wufei would sense that. It'd been one hell of a day. Duo only knew for sure what he _didn't_ want. He didn't want to lose two of the most important people in his life—one whose love was a conflagration, the other's a candle, burning with softness and steadiness and restraint. He leaned in desperately to kiss Wufei, and Wufei even let him, briefly. Then he pulled back to stand, swung the bag of hair dye over one shoulder, and nodded toward to the bathroom.

"Well, come work your magic, then," he said. "I put my appearance in Valentine McWhorter's sluttish, capable hands."

Despite himself, Duo tried to keep a straight face and failed. "Watch it, Wufei. I'll have you know that McWhorter makes a very respectable living as an arms dealer."

"Arms," agreed Wufei, "and legs, and sometimes lips for an extra forty."

"Oh, that's it! You're going blond, baby."

It was as good a distraction as any. Smiling a little, Duo scrambled after Wufei, finally ready for reincarnation by way of Ruby Rush Red.

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**End of chapter two**

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Thanks so much for reading. Suggestions, concrit, and corrections are very much appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Hello, friends. Gosh, I'm tired and have nothing to say about this part, except that it is violent, transitional, and not my favorite. It was the difficult (but, I think, necessary) Quatre check-in chapter. Hope everyone is having a great day. Suggestions and concrit much appreciated.

**Chapter warnings: Violence, language, angst, drama, 1x2 and 5x2 UST (heavier on the 5x2), a rough scene with implications of imminent rape.**

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**Tripwires  
****By JellyBob**

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Duo was putting the finishing touches on his newly fabricated work history when the front door swung open. Heero and Quatre stepped into the house, both laden down with armloads of clothes and groceries. Wufei stood up too, but Duo beat him there, ignoring Heero so he could relieve Quatre quickly of his burden. Quatre gave him a tired, grateful smile. Frith in a treetop, the guy looked like death warmed up. Unable to stop himself, Duo pulled him into a fierce embrace. Quatre clung back. They stayed like that for a long time. No one complained that they were squashing the bananas between them.

"Glad to see you," Duo murmured. "So, so glad to see you."

"Me too, truly," said Quatre. He pressed a clumsy kiss to the corner of Duo's mouth, damp eyelashes tickling his cheek, then drew back and readjusted his drowsy gaze over Duo's shoulder. "Wufei."

"Quatre," Wufei acknowledged, dropping his customary formality to give him a hug as well.

"You look so different. It's very becoming."

Wufei rubbed an awkward hand through his loose hair, freshly colored in a warm, autumnal brown that Duo had picked out for him. "Uh, thank you. I expect my pride will recover sometime next year."

"The change is adequate," commented Heero from the kitchen, where he was already stocking the shelves.

"Yeah, don't think we didn't notice you chickening out of the hair dye, Yuy," Duo said.

"I instructed you to 'assume a radical identity.' It's none of my business if you are only able to do that through physical means."

"I didn't even recognize him when he walked into my hospital room," Quatre confessed to Duo in a low voice. "I thought he was an intern or something."

"Right?" Duo whispered back. "Who knew 'jaunty and mentally sound' was in his repertoire?"

Heero overheard him, the bastard. "Who knew 'burlesque harlot' was in yours?"

"Everyone in L2," Wufei muttered directly into Duo's ear as he passed by, sparing him a smirk.

Not okay, tag-teaming like that. Duo flushed as red as his new hair and quickly readjusted his towel over his head. He did look admittedly—hookerish. It got an almost-natural laugh out of Quat, at least. That had to count for something. He guided his friend to a dining chair, mindful of his gauze-wrapped wrists, and set on the kettle for tea.

All things considered, he decided, Quatre was doing pretty well for a guy who'd almost been burned to a crisp while a group of depraved warmongers kidnapped his fiancé. Duo sort of doubted there'd been a precedent for that kind of situation, but still. He supposed that maybe it hadn't quite hit home for any of them just yet. He kept a watchful eye on Quatre as he emptied the grocery bags, inspecting him for any signs of an imminent breakdown, but Quatre simply pulled a laptop in front of him to check his mail. Apparently Heero had gotten him in the loop. He wasn't asking any questions about their course of action.

"Well, Rashid messaged me," he said, after a moment. "He said they weeded Barton's undercovers out of the company. One was my secretary, the other a security guard. Both threw themselves through their windows when they were confronted."

"There goes that intel," said Duo, sighing.

"Maybe not. The guard hit a few awnings and survived the fall—more or less. Rashid will let me know if he has anything to say when or if he recovers."

Wufei slammed a cupboard door shut harder than necessary. "I hope he broke every bone in his body."

"I just wish I hadn't sent him a Christmas card," said Quatre.

Heero paused in the process of shelving a box of cereal. "Barton's men would rather defenestrate themselves than face the consequences of their being discovered. He must be holding something over them. What could he be threatening, that they would surrender their lives for so unhesitatingly?"

"Could be anything," said Duo. "He's got dirt on them, maybe, or—"

"Their loved ones. He threatens to harm their loved ones."

There was no trace of doubt in Quatre's voice. All activity in the kitchen ceased abruptly—Duo found himself staring openly, too startled to be discreet, and Wufei and Heero had gone still at the counters in identical rigid stances. Quatre gazed back at Duo steadily. His eyes were full, but his focus didn't falter as he spoke.

"That was how Barton kept us in check, anyway. Me and Trowa. We have plenty of stratagems for those types of situations, and there _were_ opportunities, but he ensured our compliance by manipulating the only factors we weren't willing to jeopardize: each other. Whenever I struggled, they took it out on Trowa. When Trowa tried to fight back, they—they hurt me."

Fuck if that didn't sting more than anything else that Duo had heard in the last twenty-four hours, and that was no small feat. He pressed a hand to his aching stomach. "Jesus, Quatre."

"Your injuries, then," said Heero, slowly.

Quatre's lips turned upward in a strange, terrible smile. "It could have been a lot worse. You can thank Trowa's charitable nonresistance for that. You see, Barton hit hard. I think he might've even concussed me the very first time he struck me; I hadn't been ready for it. Perhaps that's why Trowa—learned faster. I mean, of course I understood what they were trying to do, but when Barton—when he began to—I just couldn't risk—"

The shrill whistling of the kettle pierced their discussion. Quatre seized upon the distraction immediately, half-standing to retrieve it, but Wufei pressed him back into his chair and went to the stove himself. Duo watched Wufei's graceful hands as he removed two mugs from the cupboard and poured them full of steaming water. He dropped a bag of chamomile into one and a few spoonfuls of instant decaff into the other, even tipping in some sugar and a splash of milk, just the way Duo took it. Well, damn. That was flattering as all hell. Duo held onto Wufei's fingers for a few meaningful seconds when he reached to accept his cup, making sure the man had seen the honest gratitude in his eyes. Wufei merely ducked his head and slid Quatre's tea across the table. As he sat down, Heero watched them all, his gaze fragile and charged with some unreadable emotion.

"So, anyway," said Quatre, composed again, sipping from his mug. "You saw the rest."

Duo and Wufei exchanged glances. "Have we?" Wufei ventured.

"I assume so."

"The fire, yes. They'd barricaded the entryway with the bodies on their way out. Was Trowa with them at that point?"

"Yes," Quatre said. He frowned. "You haven't watched it?"

"Watched what?"

"The footage. The camera they'd hidden in the room, for your and Duo's benefit, I suppose." At Duo's blank look, Quatre's voice wavered again, and he made a small, uncertain gesture toward his lips. "You must remember? Barton put it in—"

"Oh! Oh, shit!" Duo had completely forgotten about whatever it was he'd fished out of Quatre's mouth that night. It was an enormous, unprofessional oversight, one that Une would've nailed him for at Preventers, but somehow it had slipped his mind among all the terrorism and jumping out of buildings and seeing his best friends' lives shattered. After this was all over, he was going to have to decide if he really was cut out for all this shit. His chair screeched against the tile as he scooted back to grab the data from his jacket in the bedroom. Quatre seized his arm. He looked almost hopeful.

"You haven't seen it!"

"No, plumb forgot," said Duo. The rage boiled up in him belatedly, but it nearly swept him off his feet. One of his flailing arms splintered a cabinet door. "Fuck, that was _footage_? That motherfucker had it _recorded_?"

"For your viewing pleasure," said Quatre. "I don't suppose he expected me to live to tell the tale myself." His laughter was shaky and relieved. "Thank god for that! I'm so happy. I get to see your faces one last time. I get to see you all without knowing you've—I get to _see_ the three of you again."

And before that even registered in Duo's anger-clouded mind, Heero had pulled away from his place by the counter, dropped himself into the chair beside Quatre, and brushed his fingertips against his with a furious but frightened affection. "Quatre, we're not going to look at you any differently for what happened to you," he promised. "It's not your shame, do you understand that? It's _his_. That monster's. What he did doesn't have the power to change you in the mind of anyone who cares about you. You're stronger than that; you're stronger than him." At the following silence, he nearly barked the last: "_Right_?"

Wufei flinched. "R-right! Of course."

Duo could only nod. He had seen a glimmer of moisture in Heero's eyes. It was too much. Coupled with the brave, fake smile on Quatre's face, then the sudden crumpling of his expression, Duo just couldn't force any words out. He knelt beside Quatre and gathered him in his arms. It was like trying to hold some fucked up freezer; he was that cold and shaky.

"They took it out on Trowa," Quatre sobbed into Duo's neck, pitching his voice as low as he could. "It was pretty bad, I think. He—wouldn't he have _wanted_ me to struggle? I'm sure he would've. I know he understood, but—he—there was blood on his face, so much blood, and—god _damn_ it—"

"Shh," said Duo. "Quatre. Shh."

Quatre sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. Then he laughed against Duo's shoulder; the sound chilled him to the bone. "I let Barton have his way when they cut off one of Trowa's fingers."

Stars swam behind Duo's closed eyelids. The calla lily, the bottle garden. The galaxy in glass on Duo's desk; the way Trowa always worked to make every gesture, every word ring as true as his quiet heart.

"Excuse me," said Quatre suddenly, and fought his way out of Duo's embrace with a sudden urgency. He darted into the bathroom and slammed the door. A few seconds later, they could hear him vomiting into the toilet.

Duo stood up. Heero grabbed his arm.

"Give him some time."

It was damned hard to bite back a rude, reflexive report—several variations of "I forgot _you're_ his best friend" came to mind, as well as a few comments about Heero's knowledge of social proprieties—but Duo could definitely see the merit in giving Quat a moment or two. It also gave him a chance to regain his own bearings. He was shaken up. Hell, _Heero_ was shaken up; personal attacks on one's friends seemed to do that to people. Duo collapsed back into his chair and downed the rest of his coffee in one scalding, cathartic gulp. Under the table, Wufei's socked foot gently touched his calf. The motion was questioning, not sexual, and Duo acknowledged it with short nod, not meeting either Wufei or Heero's eyes.

"We'll have to watch the footage," said Heero at last.

"No," said Duo. "No one's going to watch it. It's going down the shitter in a million small pieces."

"Barton intended for us to see it," Wufei pointed out with obvious reluctance. "We need to at least take a transcript; he might've said something that we are supposed to know by now."

"Yeah, join the arctic side of the force, Wufei," Duo snapped—and flushed almost before it was out of his mouth. That was unfair as fuck to both of them. Wufei had every right to his own (admittedly logical) tactical opinions, and Heero clearly wasn't the same android he used to be. He even cringed at the insult, just a slight twitch of the cheek, but still the Duo-equivalent of heaving a table across the room.

And wasn't it terrible that, for just a moment, Duo thrived in both of their injury? That he reveled in it, ever so briefly, because of how it simplified choices he himself eventually had to make. With the same looks of hurt on their faces, Heero and Wufei were almost—interchangeable. Flip a coin, Duo Maxwell. Just call it in the air. But then Heero's pained expression relaxed into one of beautiful, humble acceptance, and Wufei's eyes flashed with the challenge and fervor that Duo so often felt like fire in his heart. In no easy way were these two men comparable. They were very different, very astounding people—ice and fire, his past and his present. If not for his duty toward his friends, Duo would've cheerfully fled the planet in order to belay his decision. How could he possibly choose between Heero Yuy and Chang Wufei?

"I'm sorry," said Duo. "Honest. I didn't mean that—I'm just a little messed up right now."

Heero accepted the apology with a nod, Wufei with a soft sigh of, "We all are."

"So—if someone has to watch the footage, I'd like it to be me," Duo continued, trying to put his big boy pants back on. "I'd prefer it if we never talked to Quat or Tro about whatever's on that card, but if we have to, for whatever reason, I like to think that I'm in a place with both of them where they'll be able to live with the knowledge that I've seen it. Because I'd like the smallest possible number of us to set eyes on it. Since—yeah."

"Agreed," said Wufei. "I hope you don't think that either of us are eager to view it."

"I'd know by now if you were the type that liked to watch," Duo said, and forced a wink.

Wufei treated him to a soft, fond smile. His new hair color looked gorgeous. Close as he and Duo were now, Duo rarely saw his hair down when it wasn't also damp, and the delicate bronze brought the faintest russet gleam out of his black eyes. His gaze grew serious as he glanced back at Heero. "We haven't contacted headquarters yet. It occurred to us that we might want to call after the daily mail delivery, just in case Barton leaves us any presents."

"It probably is best to keep our contact with Une minimal," Heero agreed. "And Barton will have a message there for you two. With all of us untraceable, he's likely to want to draw us out as quickly as possible."

"I don't like that idea," said Duo. "Not with Trowa as his only bargaining chip."

"Neither do I. When things begin happening, we're going to have to move very, very quickly." Heero hesitated. "Quatre cannot be a visible part of our operations. Do we agree on that? Barton thinks he's dead, and given the nature of Barton's—offenses against Quatre—even if it was only to discipline Trowa—well, I just don't feel comfortable allowing Quatre within physical reach."

Duo sighed, but he didn't disagree. "Q is going to flip his shit. He deserves to make the bastard eat his own teeth."

"Maybe we can let our Trowa do that in his stead," said Wufei.

They quieted, each knowing what the others were thinking: that their Trowa was alive now, almost certainly—but how long was that going to last, especially after Barton conveyed his terms to Preventers HQ? And what would those terms be? Their lives for Trowa's? Duo would eagerly agree to such a trade if only his life were at stake, but with Wufei and Heero on the chopping board as well, a three-for-one deal was not likely. Barton had to know that. Not that leaving Trowa to die was an option, either. Damn it, they needed information! They needed to know what the threat was against 03, what they themselves were up against, and _why_ they were up against it. Revenge, obviously. But what was its nature—and how exactly did Barton intend for them to atone?

"I hear the shower," said Heero suddenly. "Duo, could you check on him? Make sure there's nothing sharp—"

He tried to bite that thought off a little too late, but Duo wasn't angered by the implications. They seemed valid enough to him. Duo climbed to his feet and headed to the bathroom, pausing when Wufei caught his wrist. Wufei did not speak, although his mouth firmed. Duo smiled at him anyway, then continued on to the hallway, doing his best to ignore the quiet hitch in Heero's breath as he and Wufei met each other's eyes.

The bathroom was already filling with steam. The water was on, only at half-power or so, but scalding. Duo darted in to retrieve Quatre from the tub and nearly tripped over him instead. He had curled against the cabinets with his arms crossed over his sternum. He'd made no move to undress; he was even still wearing his shoes. Duo eased down next to him and gave him a tentative tug. Quatre folded himself against Duo immediately. Despite the heat building in the small room, he was as cold as he had been moments ago in the kitchen.

"What's the story, morning glory?" said Quatre.

It startled a laugh out of Duo. It was an ancient game between them, one they hadn't revisited since the detonation of their Gundams. He didn't know Quatre remembered about it. That repartee felt like it'd last happened a thousand years ago, in someone else's lifetime. "What's cookin', good lookin'?"

Quatre smiled against Duo's chest. "I like that."

"Thought up this one for Heero that I can actually use now, I guess," said Duo. "Goes, 'what's breezy, Japanesey?'"

"Oh, my," said Quatre.

"And that's one of the clean ones." He settled against the cabinet, winced and readjusted when a piece of the splintered paneling snagged his hair. Quatre tried to sit up to let him move, but Duo pulled him back under his arm. Even after so long, he and Quat still had a way of fitting together that was as emotional as it was physical. He'd had to routinely hug his pillows to sleep when the guy moved back to L4. As the only two touchy-feely ex-pilots of the bunch, they had to pull double-duty keeping each other's cuddling needs fulfilled.

It just wasn't fair. Of course Duo wouldn't wish such trauma on anyone else he knew, but why Quatre, of all people? Quatre, who may not have been any less fucked up or guilty or dangerous than the rest of them, when it came right down to it, but who maintained this quality of inarguable trust that just broke Duo's heart. He was the first out of post-war therapy. He was the first to stop carrying a concealed weapon, which'd been a ballsy move, especially with how prominent he remained in his home colony cluster. Could probably kill someone with a teacup if the need arose, but the gesture actually made a difference in the world. It'd proved his faith in humanity. After everything, he had still believed that people were good.

And then Barton, the psychopathic fuck—

"Trowa's alive," said Quatre. "I can feel him. I wonder if he knows I'm okay. The last time he saw me, Barton was cuffing me to an alcohol-soaked bed and lighting a match."

"He won't have given up hope, if that's what you mean," said Duo.

"Are we going to get him back, Duo? Tell me what you honestly think."

Duo paused. He was above empty platitudes like 'everything will be okay,' and Quatre knew it. "I think," he said slowly, "that we have the devil's luck. Something is fucking with us, no doubt, but it's always stopped short of killing us. After all's said and done, his dying would actually be pretty—anticlimactic."

"You're saying Trowa's going to live because anything else would be _boring_?" said Quatre incredulously.

Well, when you put it that way. Duo blushed. "Hey. You've gotta admit, our lives are nothing if not interesting."

And Quatre laughed. Thank god. The bathroom was humid; Duo couldn't tell if Quatre's face was moist with sweat or tears. In the kitchen, there was a thud, and Wufei's voice rose in contention before Heero shushed him urgently. Duo felt a little twist in his gut at the conflict. He thought he heard Trowa's name in the argument. Quatre examined his own hand, where—Duo noticed for the first time—something seemed to be missing.

"Trowa proposed to me last night," Quatre said.

Duo hadn't been planning on mentioning that ever, let alone now that he had realized Quatre's ring finger was still bare. It stung, but he kept his voice carefully neutral. "Oh?"

"Yes. We were about to make love when he asked. It was easily the most beautiful moment of my life." Quatre paused, scrubbed at his face. He was definitely crying now. "I said no. I guess it was too good or something. I just didn't trust it. And now I—I may have lost my chance to—"

"We're going to do everything in our power to get him back, Quatre," said Duo.

"Just tell me it's going to be okay," Quatre begged.

"You know I can't promise that."

"Tell me anyway, Duo. Please. I need to hear it right now."

Duo shut his eyes. "It's going to be okay," he said, and wished a part of him, however small, could actually believe it.

* * *

So right. He'd volunteered to watch the footage like a total short-sighted moron with a hero complex. By the time he'd helped Quatre into clean pajamas and tucked him into bed, Heero had found the data device, set up Duo's laptop in the other bedroom, and queued the recording to begin at the press of a button. Wufei was inventorying their artillery. Heero was on the phone again, using his weird idiomatic colonist voice as he spoke to some dude named 'Popoff.' It was still an hour or so until mail time at Preventers, so there was nothing left for Duo to do but head into the bedroom and sit down in front of the screen. He put on the headphones, hesitated, then removed them again and went to close the door. By the time he settled into the kitchen chair again, his hands were shaking. He opened up a blank document and arranged his fingers over the keys.

Okay, he could do this. He'd make the transcript, double-check it, and print out a few copies for Heero and Wufei to consult. No biggie. Didn't even have to look at the damn video unless something in the dialogue implied a visual cue or whatever-the-hell. He was a dumbass for offering to fulfill this task, but it sure beat the hell out of Wufei having to do it, or Heero, or even Quatre himself. God forbid. Nothing like a flashback in stereo sound to get your blood pumping.

Duo clicked the play button.

The recording started exactly at nine-thirty in the evening. The vantage placed the camera somewhere in the right wall of the room—the side that'd already been engulfed in flames by the time Duo had dropped in. Hidden in the spine of a book or a painting or something, maybe. Had to have been pretty discrete for Trowa, Quatre, and Quatre's security team not to have noticed—although they knew now that his security had been compromised even before he left for earth.

Nothing was happening yet. The attack had occurred around 2300, and Quatre's phone call to headquarters had ended at maybe nine-twenty. That meant that he and Trowa had only talked for roughly ten minutes before going to get ready for bed—not a good sign after a many months of separation and a refused marriage proposal. Damn, that hurt. Duo was already feeling ill. He fast-forwarded the clip a little to watch Quatre walk into the bedroom, change hastily into his pajamas, and dart back into the hallway to avoid conversation with Trowa. Trowa stood there for a moment, staring at his reflection in the dresser mirror. He was already in his own nightclothes. He didn't appear unusually upset, just contemplative. Then Quatre returned in a flurry of arms and kisses, saying something that Duo decided not to listen to, and the two of them moved to the bed. Duo averted his eyes while they made love under the sheets. When he glanced up a minute or so later, the digital readout at the bottom of the screen said 10:12, and Trowa and Quatre were already deep in slumber.

At least they'd had resolved things in some way before shit had hit the fan. Watching them sleep was oddly soothing. They gravitated toward each other in dreams, Trowa curling one arm around Quatre's shoulders, Quatre rolling over with his eyes shut to nestle into the same pillow.

It was 11:07 when Trowa sat bolt upright in bed, head cocked in listening fashion.

Duo slowed the clip down to normal speed and raised the volume.

Here went nothing.

"Hey," said Trowa, so softly that the video barely picked it up. He reached over to wake his lover, but Quatre was already sitting up beside him, the sheets slipping down to reveal a generous curve of lower back. Trowa pulled a blanket around his shoulders with reflexive protectiveness. Then he was leaning over the side of the bed to fish their clothes off the carpet, tossing Quatre a pajama top before climbing into the corresponding bottoms. One of his hands stole under his pillow for a gun that he'd stopped carrying last March. Apprehension flashed across his face. "Quatre, we should—"

"Yes," Quatre whispered back. "What do you think it is?"

"I don't know," said Trowa.

Swimming in the gray flannel as he stood up, Quatre rifled quietly through the drawer of the bedside table, then flung their suitcases open and began sifting. He turned up first with a Montblanc pen, frowning. Then his eyes cleared and he pulled two pocketknives from a pair of Trowa's trousers, unfolding the three-inch blades before tossing one to Trowa. Trowa snapped it out of the air by the handle and stole toward the closed bedroom door. His feet made no noise as he drew himself flat against the wall, waiting.

There was a thump from a nearby room, then a tinkle of breaking glass. A low rumble of laughter. Trowa and Quatre glanced at each other sharply, both registering the dozen or so men that the security footage would later confirm.

"Trowa." Quatre's voice was almost inaudible, laced with the softest breath of regret. "Trowa, I—it's not that I don't—"

Trowa merely nodded and smiled. Raised one calm finger to his lips. Quatre kissed his own fingertips in response and extended them toward Trowa, the motion falling desperately short of their twelve-foot distance. Trowa reached back. His eyes were awash with emotion.

The door burst open, and Barton's men came spilling in.

Duo had to watch the confrontation several times to catch everything that happened. It was too loud; people were moving too quickly and too independently to track in one viewing. By the fourth play-through, Duo could say with grim satisfaction what he'd always truly known: Quat and Trowa had done okay for themselves. Better than they had any right to, really, being unarmed and dead asleep not a minute before. There'd been enough forensic evidence left in the razed suite to confirm the three toadies they'd offed, but the fire had eaten away all signs of their subtler triumphs. Une knew how many of them had gotten away, sure. What she hadn't known was how many of them had been forced to escape limping, concussed, or maimed.

First blood was Trowa's. The point man had barely cleared the threshold when Trowa had him by the forearm, snapping his elbow cleanly across one knee. The bastard's idiocy actually worked to his advantage: since he hadn't drawn his gun, Trowa had no weapon to obtain from him. Lucky fuck. The second man _was_ armed, however, and Trowa had twisted the Beretta out of his grip and shot him before he could blink. Quatre shouted something in warning and hurled his knife into the fray. Someone off-screen screamed. Then Trowa gave the bedspread a tremendous yank, and Quatre tumbled to the carpet, safely grounded an instant before a volley of bullets shredded the wall behind him.

They wanted Trowa alive. That much was clear. The first lackey who had a clear shot at Trowa—some enormous sonofabitch with fists the size of boxing gloves—nearly knocked him flat with a right hook, but he didn't fire his gun. Quatre swept the knife out of Trowa's hand when he rushed to steady him. Drove the blade unflinchingly into the hollow of the big guy's throat. As the man gurgled up blood, Quatre hauled him around, catching several shots meant for him before staggering under his dead weight. Trowa helped him heave the body back into the mob and raised the gun again. With his free hand, he dragged Quatre behind him. Jammed between the bed and the dresser, they were effectively trapped, and their attackers had finally gained enough ground to stop charging in one at a time. Trowa's mouth trembled the tiniest bit as the remaining assassins spread out in a leering half-circle. Every time Quatre tried to squirm free, Trowa blockaded him back against the wall.

"Kick it toward me," ordered one man in sunglasses, with the husky-soft voice of a smoker. Indeed, he held a lit cigarette between his teeth. Lazy gray threads spiraled toward the ceiling to flirt with the smoke detector, which, Duo noticed now, was not blinking.

Jaw set, Trowa held position. Waited to hear the threat, waited to weigh his options.

The smoking man just shrugged. He'd been cradling a slender glass bottle against his suit jacket—vodka, from what Duo could make out on the label—and now he uncapped it. Topped off the delicate crystal stemware that some of his friends extended for refills. Then, working with calm facility, he drew a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, fed half of it into the bottle's opening, and patiently replaced the cap.

When he began lowering his cigarette toward the fabric wick, Trowa let the gun fall to the carpet.

"Wise choice," said the smoking man. He nodded toward the weapon, and the ugly fucker beside him with the knife still in his eye scrambled to pick it up. Only when he'd steadied the Molotov cocktail on the bookshelf behind him did he drop his cigarette and grind it out beneath one leather wingtip Oxford. He whistled, low and sharp. "Boss," he said. "Ready for you."

And the bootlickers parted like the fucking Red Sea. A moment later, the real Trowa Barton himself limped in, and not even the murmur of greeting from his men could mask the sound of Quatre's soft gasp.

Duo paused again.

The few pictures they'd seen of Dekim Barton's son were limited, but sufficiently representative. Trowa was a sandy-haired man, rugged and broad-shouldered, with sharp blue eyes that gleamed with cruelty and intelligence. He'd already been tall by his supposed death in 195—six-two, six-three—but he had to be pushing at least six-six now; just more verification of the excellent care he must've received not only to survive, but to thrive. Not that evidence of his near-fatal injuries didn't exist now. He walked laboriously. His respiration was hoarse, and he seemed to have some paralysis in his left leg, though he masked it well. Duo took down as much information as he could before he started the footage again, his heart beating so hard he could feel it in his throat.

"No-name," said Barton, with a terrible, smirking grimace. "Surprised to see me? It's been a long, long time."

Trowa didn't answer. He seemed lost beyond words; his expression, though carefully locked behind a veil of controlled apathy, held a dark measure of dread that Duo only recognized because of their closeness. His grip on Quatre's arm tightened until Quatre's mouth twisted with pain. He backed away even more, pressing Quatre flush against the wall.

"Come on out, little Winner," Barton taunted. "Let's play."

"Don't speak to him like that," Trowa hissed. "Don't even look at him!"

"I'll look wherever the fuck I want," said Barton calmly. "Haven't I earned a little freedom, after three years confined to a fucking med bed? Get them over here, Gozwit. I want to have some fun."

The big lug on the left stepped forward. He made Barton look like a skinny nerd. He gripped Trowa under the shoulder and seized a handful of Quatre's hair, making him yelp, yanking them both into the center of the room. One of the men rested a palm casually on Trowa's ass as they drew forward. Quatre, following a step away with a great view of the incident, lashed out and caught the man by the bangs, snapping his neck back with a neat twist of the hands. The bones cracked sickeningly.

Duo didn't have time to cheer. Gozwit pistol-whipped Trowa smartly before the creeper's dead body had even struck the ground. Trowa went down to his hands and knees, a thin stream of blood slipping down the side of his face, and Barton himself interposed as Quatre screamed and reached for his lover, flinging him backwards into the bed.

"Nothing funny now," Barton coaxed.

"The hell do you want from us?" Quatre shouted, trying without success to thrash free.

Barton held him in place with surprising gentleness, but as soon as Trowa staggered upright, Gozwit hit him again. Trowa, standing at a respectable six-two, could've been a ragdoll for all the juggernaut cared. He collapsed to the carpet, coughing blood. Quatre stilled immediately, his eyes wide with terror. He still had a fistful of Barton's black shirt.

"What do you want?" he repeated, softer. "Please, Trowa—don't hurt him."

"_Hurt_ him?" Barton's smile was malicious, warped. "Oh, I don't want to _hurt_ him. No. That would be far too easy, wouldn't it? I spent almost three years in a coma, 04. I was comatose when Operation Meteor began. I was fighting for my shithole of a life through the devastation of my family's plans, the formation of Mariemaia's Army, my father's death—_everything_. While you and No-Name enjoyed peace together in the colonies. In _my _colonies. You and that worthless fucking engineer and all you motherless, earth-sympathizing faggots were starting careers while I was going through physical therapy to learn to wipe my own ass. And you ask what I _want_? Why, I want to give No-Name a measure of my pain. I want to turn the tables and fuck what _he_ loves, and I want him to watch."

Duo slammed the laptop shut.

_It's going to get worse from here on out. Jesus Christ, it's going to get _worse_._

Clenching and unclenching his fists rapidly, Duo gulped back his tears. He wondered if he'd ever been this furious in his whole life. Too bad he couldn't just throw the whole desk through the window like he wanted to. He couldn't even stand up; he was so sick on rage. After all these years, Barton still thought he was_ right_ to want to kill billions of people. He thought that he was justified in raping and murdering Quatre Winner, in cutting off Trowa's fingers and dangling him like bait so the rest of them would have to watch him die. Psychopaths like Barton went against everything Duo had fought for. There was so much love in the world, and Barton didn't understand any of it.

It was pathetic.

When Duo felt significantly under control, he cracked the door. Heero was standing just a foot away, peeking in to check on Quatre, and Duo nodded and ducked his head before slipping down the hallway. Heero's eyes bore into him all the way to the kitchen. Wufei was still sitting at the table, a cup of tea between his hands. He stood up immediately when he spotted Duo hesitating by the stove and hastened to comfort him.

"Maxwell?"

"Yeah. Wufei. Could you—do you think you could you do me a huge favor? I mean, I got through part of it, but—"

Wufei raised one hand to Duo's face and hesitated bare millimeters away. Duo could feel the gentle heat radiating from him. It felt like a home he'd never had. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, lifting his own hand to cup Wufei's smoother, slimmer one. Wufei's arm trembled. His lips brushed against Duo's hair, almost so softly he didn't feel it.

"I'll do what I can," said Wufei, and gently disengaged.

He bumped into Heero as moved toward the bedroom. The two of them nodded their apologies, continued on their way without making eye contact. Heero did not address Duo as crossed the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee, sliding down in the chair adjacent to Wufei's recently vacated one and picking up his cell phone. Duo stared at the strong, beautiful slopes of his shoulders, his fingers as he dialed, elegant and purposeful. He opened his mouth to speak, but a tinny voice had already come on over the line. Heero's attention was properly diverted. It was like Duo had ceased to exist.

_I'm in love with both of you_, Duo thought, swallowing hard. _That's what this is._

When Heero finally sensed his gaze and began to turn around, Duo swung back into the hallway and let himself into Quatre's room. His friend was deep in a sedative-induced slumber, so Duo shrugged off his jeans and climbed into the double bed beside him. Let Wufei and Heero split the other room, he thought, curling up against Quatre's smooth, pajama-clad back. If his vacillating heart was any indication, the two of them were going to have to learn to share eventually.

* * *

**End of chapter three**


End file.
